


Before and After

by IRegretNothingAndEverything



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: BTW, Cause I say so, Fire, Transphobia, and uses they them, because I say so, dark is nonbinary, for tagging purposes hopefully, gore mention, he's also autsitic, host is autistic, host is trans, not explicit but defintelty heavily implied, rape mention, thank you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IRegretNothingAndEverything/pseuds/IRegretNothingAndEverything
Summary: The background for! My version of the Host. I love my boy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Not exactly writing but an overview of the entire thing!

So, uh, smol bean born, given dead name, which,,,, he doesn’t technically have cause I never? gave him one? Cause it makes me feel yucky, so, smol baby, born into a family, had two older brothers and an older sister, so he was the Baby of the Family. Mom and Dad were,,,, gross. They didn’t have much, relatively poor, which didn’t help the family shit, and baby Author got really into books and writing. Like, really into it. 

so the moment he could, he started to write journals. He kept every single one he wrote, stealing notebooks to be able to keep them going. Sometimes it was random ideas and doodles, and other times there were blood staining a few pages, along with tears, and accounts of what his mother would do when dad wasn’t home. 

His brothers (twins) where three years older than him, and his sister a year and a half. They were baby too, so they couldn’t do much against it all, but they tried to protect small boy. He wasn’t exactly completely protected, cause of reasons, but they tried their best and he was quite grateful. 

So, mom was shit, and lil baby Author was sittin there like ‘don’t think im a girl, but is this the right time to say this?’ so he hid that from parent, but told! Older Bros, who were both like ‘neato lil dude, but don’t say shit to mom’ 

and time went on, they got older, started being teens, and Author wasn’t exactly... normal. The other kiddos were relatively okay, rather traumatized by the whole situation, but they came out of it the other side, and were fine. Author, on the other hand, seemed a bit... off to everyone who saw him. First off, no one liked his eyes, cause they seemed to glow at times, bright gold and full of malice towards others. He wasn’t exactly as normal. 

and this is around the time that he discovered how much Better he was than anyone else, the power he wielded in his hands to control people’s fates simply by writing. 

And... well, there was some revenge to deal out. 

Siblings escaped, left him behind, as he wrote the parents death, blaming dad for not stopping her, and mom for being horrible. he left them to die in their old house and forgot about the three that protected him, who ran off to exist as beans somewhere else. I dunno, I haven’t really expanded their characters much they’re kinda there for filler. 

and he grew. He was still small, as he always had been, since birth he was a small little baby, and he stayed small and rather weak. having the taste for blood now, he searched for people to hurt. 

sometimes, though, they found him. 

he’d go to bars looking for people who were being rude, or just people he didn’t like the look of, and write their deaths out. He didn’t exactly look male enough to people yet, especially for that time period, so there were a lot of nasty looks and rude comments, slurs thrown at him. He didn’t care, just writing out their deaths and keeping his journals, of which there were quite a few now. 

and eventually, someone took it too far, and he couldn’t protect himself in time, couldn’t write out their death fast enough, and they set out to ‘prove what a girl’s supposed to be’ to him, out in the alleyway behind one of the places he frequented. 

this was the start of the more... gruesome kills, where he found himself torturing them longer than he had before, playing with his victims, slowly gaining more power as he exercised his abilities. 

he was eventually found by the egos, taken into the group, and he let himself pretend he could feel more than malice and hatred, tried to let them into his heart, but he couldn’t find it in him. 

but he had a library, where he kept his books and his journals, and he had his cabin, where he kept his more... grotesque ideas. 

slowly, he began to crave more power than he had, and faster than he could build it. He was reckless and angry, and wanted more and more, and eventually he looked to dark magic, scouring book after book to find whatever it is that could make him better than before, make him more than what he was now. 

and he found The Ritual. It was a complicated thing, and he left the others to go to his cabin, which was a normal occurance for him. However, he usually told people where he was going and how long, so they knew in case he got in over his head. He believed he couldn’t do such, being a powerful man such as himself, controlling a person’s fate as easily as writing a word. 

so this time he didn’t tell anyone. 

it took almost two months to gather and complete this Ritual, and finally, powerhungry and angry, he did what he thought he had to 

and drove himself insane. 

the sudden rush of everything, every last broken bit of emotion he never let himself feel, the ideas and everything he thought he could do and everything he never thought of, the beings hidden deep in the world that could kill something with a single glance, if that, the power he now possessed, at such a powerful cost to himself. 

he screamed, tore at his face and neck and screamed in his cabin, the fire blazing around him, before finally, his scratching fingers caught around his eyes, and he tore them from his skull, feeling the flesh around his face burn and sting as he did. 

he escaped the cabin before it fully caught, bloody and burnt, dripping blood and occasionally his own melted skin, and wandered. He wore nothing but a shirt and pants, both burn to hell, tearing the skin of his feet as he walked back home, where he knew they would be waiting. He knew that they would be there, sitting around, wanting to find him, though he wasn’t sure how he knew. 

he wandered in, dripped blood on everything, showed his broken bloody form to them, the empty void of where his eyes had once been, and collapsed. 

when he finally woke, it had been nearly a week after he had done the Ritual, and Host was exahusted. He knew too much, felt too much, and wanted this pounding headache to go away and-... realized he was talking aloud, he could feel the things around them, see them in a way that he shouldn’t have been able to do, with the crisp white bandages wrapped securely around his face. 

he spent nearly a month in doc’s care, bleeding violently, and occasionally dropping back into that insanity from the cabin, screaming and voilently tearing away his own skin. 

eventually, he calmed, mellowed out, and retrated to his library. he couldn’t bear to destory everything that he had, so he hid it off in a small room, everything of the Author away and broken, in a sealed off room, and forced himself to forget, to think he burned it all to restart, and went about his new life, until he was prepared to deal with what he had done. 

until then, he slowly forced himself to remember what it was like to feel.


	2. Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one with the rape mention, and also transphobia

The bar was a seedy place, entrance hidden past signs and broken bottles. Author assumed many a fight took place here, and he sighed, shifting and tugging his shirt just a bit tighter around him. 

The inside was no better than the outside, the same glass and liquor staining the walls and floor. He sighed, taking careful steps to avoid the glass. As stupid as it was, he didn’t like to wear shoes, and often didn’t, though people assumed that he did. 

The people were the worst part, however, the belligerent drunks raising fists and bottles at the slightest of things, and Author sidestepped them as well. They would get their dues one day, and perhaps it would be at his pen, but it was not their turn today. He was looking for a different fix, a different body to burn straight down to hell. 

The bar area was mostly empty, so Author took a careful seat, looking around at the various patrons, wondering who would be drinking their last drink tonight, and who he would let live for another day. The bartender came around, but before Author could say a word, the bartender glared. 

“Get your ass out of my bar.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“I don’t serve tranny freaks in my bar, so take your little ass and get the fuck out of my bar missy.” Author paused. He didn’t usually run into such obvious transphobia. He blinked, then stood, mind made up. 

“Fine. If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave. But you will regret it later.” He said it soft, careful, so the man had to lean in a bit to hear it, and he laughed, as Author expected him to do. 

“Yeah, sure little lady. I doubt I’m gonna regret that. Get the fuck out.” 

So he did. He turned, carefully avoiding the glass as he had done before, and left, moving to his pocket to find his pen, smirking to himself. 

He never quite found it. 

All too quickly, a hand was around his mouth, arm around his neck, and he was yanked back into the dark of the alleyway. He fought, of course, but the man was bigger than he was, and already had him at a disadvantage, having him around the throat. 

“Well hey there little missy.” His breath smelt of whiskey and cigar smoke, as he pressed his lips to Author’s ear. Author shifted, kicking back against his shin, but to no avail. “Now don’t get all feisty now, calm down. I couldn’t help but notice what the bar keep was saying to you.” 

Author flung his head back, going for the nose, but the man followed the action, keeping his face out of Author’s reach, and tightened his grip around his neck. 

“Now stop fighting this. I just want to help your realize something, pretty girlie. You stay nice and still now.” 

That was the first time Author used the bat instead of the book to kill someone. His hands shook the entire time, even after the man’s blood covered the floor of his cabin.


	3. The Ritual

He had everything. Everything was ready, the circle drawn, candles lit, book open in front of him. He was prepared. He knew what he had to do.

It had taken far far too long to get to this point, scavenging the things he needed, the proper salts, the correct height of the candles, the right papers, everything had to be perfect or this wouldn’t work. 

Carefully, he settled in his spot in the middle, fingers tracing the page of the book. He mumbled to himself a moment, not really saying the words, just in case, before he shifted, pausing and nodding to himself, and pushing the book from the circle, straightening up. 

Blood drawn, salt thrown, the lights flickered around him as he drew upon power he could have only wished to know. For a split second, he thought he saw someone move in the corner of his eye, but he refused. Author refused to be drawn away from his quest, and began to recite the words he had memorized. 

And the world lit on fire around him. 

His head split open, the world there in his grasp, the pure power of knowing everything one could possibly want to know sitting in his skull as his head began to get heavier and heavier, it felt hotter and hotter, as fire whipped around him, just barely avoiding him. 

Faintly he heard screaming 

After a second he realized it was him. 

He tore at his face, his scalp, his neck, anything to get this desperate fire out of his skin, out of his body, the burning pain in his soul beginning to overwhelm him. 

There was someone here, he was sure of it. Someone whispered the fear and pain into his brain and he took hold and screamed, feeling everything he had refused himself to feel at once. 

His scraping hands caught on his eye socket, and he tore the skin on his bottom eyelid. He didn’t pause, but brought both hands up and began to dig and pick, falling back and screaming to the heavens, fire licking at his exposed skin. 

Pop. 

He screamed louder, but the fire had begun to recede form his skull, he found the missing puzzle, and he tore at his other eye, desperate scratching and pulling until- 

Pop. 

He rolled slightly, pressing down on the ball in his hand, slamming it into the ground as the fire in his head abated, though the fire around him just got hotter and hotter, until finally he had to get out of his cabin, get free from the hellscape 

He stumbled out, collapsing onto the ground just a few meters away from the burning cabin, the trees around it completely unaffected. He dragged himself away from the heat, burns scraping against the ground as he forced himself to keep moving. 

The explosion only knocked him out for a few minutes, and when he finally came to, he struggled to his feet, blood drip, drip, dripping from his face, and began to walk.


	4. The Others

Step. 

Drip. 

Step. 

Drip. 

Blood slowly dripped down his face, off the tip of his nose, hitting the leaves along the forest floor. He was quiet, head down as he stumbled from tree to tree to stay standing, skin of his feet and hands breaking as he did, leaving more bloody marks to trace his path back to the still smoldering crater where his home had once been. 

Step. 

Drip. 

Step. 

Drip. 

He shuffled across the sidewalk, people passing by without a second look towards him. He left a blood trail of footsteps as he did, blood dripping off the tips of his fingers, his nose, his chin. No one looked at him. He said nothing. 

Step.

Drip. 

Step. 

Drip. 

The door opened before he reached it, and he shuffled in, slowly making his way through the empty house, following the faint sounds of voices. He would find them. They must be worried by now. 

Step. 

Drip. 

Step. 

Drip.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dark sat at the head of the table, Wilford settled on the other side of it. There were various noises as the others argued around them, but Dark didn’t look away from Wilford. Really, they were the two who knew the extent of Author’s slight insanity, how powerhungry he really was. 

“He wouldn’t just leave without telling us!” Doc was standing, hands on the table, almost snarling at Bim, who was leaning back in his chair, glaring back at him. 

“He’s done it before, Doc, This is just how he is. So it’s been a bit longer than normal. He’ll come back! He always comes crawling back. Why are we worried about him anyways?” 

“Because he’s important! He’s part of us! He’s my fucking friend, Bim, of course I’m worried when he’s gone for two fucking months!” Dark debated telling Doc, just for a moment, how blank Author really felt. They could pick up those tiny nuances in his voice when he spoke, and... well, there were no friendly feelings in that man. Dark didn’t say this, of course. It wouldn’t help. 

“Stop.” Wilford was standing now, though his voice was quiet, the dangerous sort of quiet you didn’t want to be on the other side of. Wilford was good at that sort of quiet. Doc went silent, turning to look at him. No one mentioned how red his eyes were. They all knew he had been crying. “This isn’t about who he is, this is about the fact that he’s been gone for over two months now. Who cares if you give a shit about him, he might be caught up in something dangerous.” 

“Which is why we leave him the fuck alone.” Bim glared a bit, eyes narrowed towards Wilford. “He’s always caught up in dangerous shit, and I’m not going to be dragged into one of his fucking books because I walked in at the wrong time. I say, we leave him the fuck alone. If he’s gone forever, who cares?” 

Dark actually paused at that. Bim wasn’t normally this callous about people, and especially not with their feelings. Doc was visibly upset, and Bim usually was the first to try and help him. What about Author made this different. What had the man done to upset the other so much. 

“Bim, I swear to god, if you don’t stop being a little shit, Author isn’t going to be the one you need to worry about.” Doc’s voice gained that low dangerous tone as Wilford’s had done, though he wasn’t as good at pulling it off as Wilford. 

Finally, Dark spoke up. “Doctor, sit down.” Doc glared at him for a moment, which just proved further to Dark how upset he actually was, but followed the order, flopping back into his seat and hiding his face in his arms on the table. “It doesn’t matter how he’s pissed you off, Bim, we should be looking for him. This sort of extended disappearance is out of character, even for him.” 

And the door opened. 

They turned, those who had to, to look at the door. For a moment, there was just a hand, leaving a bloody mark on the door frame as it slid down a bit, the person struggling to stay upright, struggling to get into the door frame. 

When he did, however, Doc sat up straight, eyes wide. “Author?” 

There was a pause, before the man grinned, blood dripping into his teeth, and raised his head, waving another bloody hand at them, before falling face forward onto the floor. 

That wasn’t the part that Dark worried about, however. 

What worried him was the bloody voids where Author’s golden eyes had once been, the mutilated flesh around them, and the skin caught underneath the Author’s nails.


	5. Doctors Appointment

“Alright, I’m glad you came back, I was worried you weren’t going to.” 

“...”

“I need to ask you a few questions, Host.” 

“Fine.” 

“Are your wounds still bleeding?” 

“You know they are, what’s the point of asking if you can see it?” 

“I need to know if it’s old blood or not.” 

Host sighs, then leans forwards, dripping blood onto the white tile. 

“You didn’t need to do that to prove it.” 

“...” 

“Fine. Do they cause you any pain?” 

“No more than usual.” 

“You can’t know what’s usual, it’s only been two weeks, Host.” 

“I know what’s normal for them. I know more than you could ever process.” 

Doc sighs softly, looking back down to stare at the blood pooling on the tile. “I get that-” 

“No you don’t. Just get me the bandages and let me leave.” 

“Host-” 

“The Doctor sighs at him, as if The Host is a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. He takes a step back, surprised at how easily The Host knows what he’s going to do, what he’s going to say, what he’s going to have for dinner tonight-” 

“Okay, I get, stop.” 

Host smiled softly, then held out his hand carefully. “Give me the bandages, and let me leave.” 

Doc stared quietly, then moved over to the cabinet on the wall.


	6. Disgust

Would they be disgusted by it, he wondered. Would they withdraw from him, recoil in horror and fear by the sight, or would they pity him? Would they look at the gaping holes in his face and feel pity for the man that had done that to himself. 

He couldn’t be sure. There were hundreds of possible futures out there of what they may or may not do. There could be a non reaction, after all, or they would say nothing until he was gone, and speak of the disgust that they felt looking upon him and seeing the mess of scratches and unhealed skin that was his eyes. 

He wondered for a moment, if he preferred the pity or the disgust. There wasn’t much other than that, after all. There was no one who had looked at the bloody holes and thought anything other than those two things. It wasn’t that hard to realize that it was all that could be felt when looking upon what he had done. 

Quietly, he unraveled the bandages, carefully wiping away the blood across his face, frowning to himself. He could see, and yet he couldn’t. It was a strange way to live, but he knew, no matter what, what those horrible wounds looked like. 

The blood slowly dripped out of the empty socket, staining his cheeks and leaving trails down his face. He sat there, quiet for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror as the blood dripped into the sink. 

“Host?” He heard his name be called, distantly, and paused. They, whoever it was, would come looking for him if he stayed here in silence. They would find him, and he would answer a question that he had held for so long, what they would feel if they saw the bloodied mess of his sockets, the ruined flesh that he hid just under the bandaging. 

He paused, then sighed, and grabbed a fresh roll of bandages. “Just a moment.” He called it back to them, and didn’t pay attention to an answer. 

Perhaps another time.


End file.
